The artistic instinct, or impulse, is not particularly rare.  Many persons have a real love for beautiful things, even a real aptitude for designing or reproducing them.  The creative instinct is something vastly different.  Creative artists,—­great painters or sculptors, great illustrators, and wizards in pencil and pen and charcoal effects,—­must be both born and made; and there are, the gods know, few enough of them, all told!  Until comparatively recent times, everyone gifted with the blessing of an artistic sense turned it into a curse by trying to paint, draw or model, while the world yawned, laughed, turned away in disgust; and the real artists flung up their hands to heaven and cried:  “What next?”

But lately,—­in many places, but preeminently in Greenwich Village,—­these folk who love art, but can’t achieve great art expression, have evolved a new sort of art life.  They are developing the embryo of what was the arts-and-crafts idea into a really fine, useful and satisfying art form.  They have left mission furniture and Morris designs behind.  They are making their own models, and making them well.  They are turning their restless, beauty-loving energies into sound, constructive channels.  The girl who otherwise might have painted atrocious pictures is, in the Village, decorating delightful-looking boxes and jars, or hammering metals into quaint, original shapes that embody her own fleeting fancies.  The man who wanted to draw but could never get his perspective right is carving wood—­a work where perspective is superfluous—­and achieving pleasure for others, and comfort and a livelihood for himself, at one and the same time.

I know of nothing which is so typical or so significant in all the Village as this new urge toward good craftsmanship, elementary poetic design,—­the fundamentals of a utilitarian, beautiful and pervading art life apart from clay or canvas.

The capitol of the Village shifts a bit from time to time, as befits so flexible, so fluid a community.  Just at the present writing, it is at Sheridan Square that you will find it most colourfully and picturesquely represented.  Tomorrow, no man may be able to say whence it has flitted.

You will find much golden sunshine in Sheridan Square—­not the approved atmosphere of Bohemia, yet the real thing nevertheless.  It is a broad, clean, brazen sort of sunshine—­a sunshine that should say, “See me work!  See me shine!  See me show up the least last ugliness or smallness or humbleness, and glorify it to something Village-like and picturesque!”

When you leave the sunny square, you will enter the oddest little court in all New York; it has not to my knowledge any name, but it is the general address of enough tea shops and studios and Village haunts to stock an entire neighbourhood.  The buildings are old—­old, and, of course, of wood.  These artist folk have metamorphosed the shabby and dilapidated structures into charming places.